An Arrow In Flight (Seven Archangels Book 1) Page 4

  "Anzaniel," whispered Raguel.

  The demon's eyes glinted: victory and rejection and hatred all at once. He might as well have said, "I was waiting for you to realize. But I'm not him anymore."

  A chill spiked through Raguel as he remembered this fallen angel unfallen, showing him one star out of millions in a star nursery and explaining how this one would never form more than a brown dwarf, and how excited this angel had been about all the variations in the ways you could burn hydrogen. God did this, the angel had said, delighted. God did it all!

  And here he was, today, bound and gagged after trying to harm the Israelite forces at Jericho so an attack by the Canaanites would kill them all.

  A hand landed on Raguel's shoulder. "Hey," Michael murmured. "Come with me."

  Michael flashed them both away from the city wall. Raguel said, "I have to finish my work."

  Michael folded his arms and shook his head. "You have to get a breather. I've seen that look on my men before, and I know you've seen it too. Last week, didn't you send Dobiel for a break?"

  Raguel said, "I had to. He'd pushed himself so hard he was shaking."

  Michael nodded. "But when was the last time you took any time off?"

  Raguel shrugged.

  "You ensure that your direct reports get rests on a regular basis." Michael pointed at him. "I'm going to do the same. Take twenty-four hours, and I don't want to see you on duty until this time tomorrow."

  Raguel opened his hands. "What should I do?"

  "And that," Michael said, "is proof positive that you need a break. Creation is huge and this is a gorgeous world." He swept out one hand and one wing to take in the expansive horizon. "You're fighting to defend it. You deserve to enjoy it. Now go."

  Michael vanished.

  Raguel huffed. I don't really need a break, he prayed.

  There's 'need,' God replied, and there's 'would benefit from.' Don't turn the latter into the former.

  Raguel smirked. Well, at least let's make it useful time.

  He began his twenty-four-hour enforced holiday by heading to his spot directly before God, one of the Seven Archangels of the Presence. Training his inner focus on God, he drank in the Beatific Vision: his understanding of God in all His splendor. Light from light, truth from truth, this was his creator and his lover and his sustainer, and Raguel shed his concerns just to dwell in that Presence.

  He hadn't always been able to do this. Only after the Winnowing were the angels given the gift of seeing God as He is. But now, having experienced Him unfiltered, Raguel wouldn't have been able to live without Him.

  It's been too long, Raguel prayed, and God welcomed him back: they could be together now.

  Eventually Raguel found himself gentled away from contemplation, and he looked around at the angelic choirs. The Seraphim were singing "Holy Holy Holy" in their eternal trisagion. The Cherubim were contemplating and debating and studying. The choirs rayed out from the Throne of the Almighty, the most powerful ones closest to the center, and yet here stood Raguel, only a Principality and yet right in the heart, directly before the Almighty.

  Dizzying, when he thought of it. A reward God had given him for doing nothing more than remaining true.

  Raguel asked for an assignment. The Holy Spirit responded, "You're assigned to eighteen more hours of relaxation."

  "Is there anyone I can help?"

  "I want you to help yourself."

  An unusual assignment, to be sure. If he'd been assigned to protect one of Israel's judges, he'd have reconnoitered, taken stock of the angels under his command, assessed the threat, and then strategized. How do you strategize doing nothing?

  So Raguel reconnoitered: what areas of his spirit needed the most rest? And what resources did he have to meet that need? What were the threats to his spiritual well-being? And given that, how could he eliminate the threat?

  He could sleep. Angels didn't need to sleep on a regular basis, but they could sleep in response to emotional exhaustion. He wasn't that badly off, though, so he considered lesser remedies, and that's when he decided on art. Some kind of art was the way to relax.

  Raguel flashed himself back to Earth with a thought, arriving in the crown of a century-old cedar that swayed in the wind but didn't buckle under his immaterial form. If he'd been anything but pure spirit, Raguel couldn't have stood on those topmost branches: his form was a head taller than even the tallest man he'd ever met, and he also had four ruddy wings on his back.

  All of Canaan stretched before him, spreading to the seas on one side and mountains on the other, more mountains to the north and wasteland to the south, but here lay a plateau where cows grazed and bees buzzed. Farmers worked their crops in every direction, and Raguel recognized their angelic guardians at their sides saying "Grow." In the distance, a Virtue read a story by a stream. Two Cherubim crouched, engrossed, over a game of strategy atop a rock while one Dominion fished without bait or hook, just for the lazy pleasure of nothing to do.

  What was Michael doing now? Did he need help? But no, Michael had told him to quit worrying for one day. He could get back to work in a few more hours.

  Raguel slipped to the base of the tree where he considered what kind of art to indulge in. He could read. He could attune his ears to the Heavenly choir and listen to their music. He could draw, and in the end, the act of creation appealed most to him. He created parchment and charcoal pencils with just a thought, and he made himself semi-solid so he could use them.

  Raguel illustrated his prayers, offering the drawing to God even as he sketched: colors and light and blends that appealed to his sense of vision and at the same time represented souls. The tragedy of that lost angel he'd just encountered, the victory of the Jericho souls who would survive the threat, and on the margins, a promise. A promise of redemption to come, a soul so great and so pure that it would reconcile the world.

  What Raguel thought it would be, that was. He wasn't sure. None of the angels were.

  As night tucked in Canaan, Raguel focused a glow onto the parchment and determined to finish before his holiday ended.

  It was then the peasant came.

  The man who entered Raguel's grotto exerted all the strength in his aging body to swing a wooden staff into the bushes, driving off any number of small animals.

  "They may be Your chosen people," Raguel muttered to the Lord, "but God, they're strange people."

  "I heard you!" The man whirled in Raguel's direction and pointed a careworn finger. "Where are you?"

  Raguel looked up from his parchment, eyes shining.

  Hovering above the man's head to avoid the swinging stick, the man's guardian opened his hands. He's searching for an angel. He heard you because he has an amulet.

  Raguel frowned at the other angel.

  The guardian shrugged, looking helpless.

  The man poked the air at random points with the staff, and Raguel burst out laughing.

  "I hear you," the man said. "You're coming with me!"

  Raguel gestured to his drawing and pencils, which vanished back to Heaven. "Whyever would I accompany you anywhere?"

  The old man jabbed the air near the tree, and Raguel grabbed the staff; the angel could feel the tingle of idolatry, but prayers to El Shaddai had also seasoned the wood. The man tugged it back.

  "I have an amulet. You have to show yourself."

  Raguel looked at the guardian, who seemed mortified.

  What do you want me to do with him, Lord?

  I want you to love him, God replied.

  Yes, Raguel prayed, but how? Should I make myself visible?

  You can if you want.

  Raguel revealed himself where he sat, legs tucked up and wings tight around him.

  The old man started.

  "Give me your name," said Raguel.

  "Eliakim ben Yehudi," said the old man.

  "Explain yourself, Eliakim ben Yehudi." Raguel kept his voice steady, as if talking to one of his soldiers. "What sort of amulet are you wielding that
'commands' me to obey?"

  The man raised a leather thong from beneath his grey beard. On the end was a clay charm stamped with symbols.

  "I'm impressed." Not for the reason the old man thought, but it was an impression nonetheless. "What kind of service are you compelling?"

  Is that the right term?, Raguel thought to God.

  If he were compelling you, you'd know what to call it, God told him.

  The man frowned. "Let me see all of you."

  Raguel climbed to his feet before the old man, who stepped backward as he stared at the eyes shining high over the top of his head. Raguel kept a dry tone. "Will I suffice?"

  Eliakim grimaced. "You'll have to."

  The guardian burst out laughing, hands over his mouth. Raguel tried not to look at the guardian in case he did the same. "Where do you live?"

  "In the house at the base of the hill—"

  Eliakim stopped whatever he'd been about to say because Raguel had flashed them both to the building.

  Raguel inspected the small building. "Now, what service did you require?"

  Eliakim was panting, trembling. Humans react badly to angelic transportation. "You could have warned me!"

  "I could have. What service did you require of me?"

  The guardian laid a hand on his charge's shoulder. "Play nice."

  Eliakim led Raguel into the mudbrick house's courtyard past a dead firepit. The man leaned heavily on the walking stick as he seated himself at a table in a back room. Raguel glanced around—then bristled. Anger rippled from his heart.

  The old man clutched the amulet in his wrinkled hand.

  Raguel faced him, eyes glowing like stars. "You have an Ashera in here."

  His wings flared. He could level this house and snap that man like a cracker. Eliakim squeaked, "I don't."

  Raguel marched into the corner and snatched up a clay idol, a woman with curls on her head and both hands supporting her giant breasts. Raguel crushed it in his fist.

  Red crumbs trickled from his palm. "El Shaddai is your one God."

  The old man had gone pale.

  Raguel dusted his hands, sending a shower of clay around the room. His eyes narrowed. "Did you summon me to insult God with idols?"

  Eliakim clutched the amulet in his hand. "I meant no offense. I want you to stay for the night."

  Raguel squinted.

  "I demand safety. You're ordered to remain until morning to make certain I stay safe."

  Raguel cocked his head. "You need protection?"

  "I'm an old man." Eliakim looked aside. "My children are scattered, and my wife is dead. I want you to stay until I die."

  Raguel's eyebrows raised. "You plan to die tonight?"

  "I know I'm going to die tonight," said the man. "An amulet told me."

  Raguel glanced at the guardian.

  "It's true," said the guardian. "His heart will stop before sunrise."

  Pausing momentarily, Raguel looked about the house, the man's possessions, and foresaw it all dissolve into time. "What do you think I can do?"

  "Just guard me," the old man grumbled. "Is that so difficult?"

  Raguel said, "You…summoned an angel to protect you from...nothing?"

  "If I had known angels were so obstinate," said Eliakim, "I might not have."

  Raguel reached with his heart to God. Love him, God had said. It would have been easier to protect him—at least there you could put a barrier around the man, shore up his soul, dispatch your soldiers to the vulnerable places and watch for an enemy. Why hadn't God arranged things so Eliakim had found a different angel?

  Raguel bit his lip. "There's nothing really to protect you from. Do you want reassurance?"

  The man shrugged. "I don't know. You're the angel."

  "You're the arch-mage with the amulet."

  Eliakim snickered, Raguel realized what he had said, and they both laughed.

  Eliakim said, "You might start with your name."

  "Why ask my name?"

  "Because I want to know who's with me." The man folded his arms. "I won't set up idols to you. I don't have time even if I wanted to."

  That made sense. "My name is Raguel. I'm a Principality, and one of the seven archangels of the Presence."

  Eliakim raised his eyebrows. "So I did well for myself, didn't I?"

  Raguel frowned. "You consider angel-hunting like any other competition?"

  "No, but if you were a fish, I'd eat well for a week."

  Raguel decided to take this as a compliment. He went to the table and sat opposite Eliakim. "You're a fisherman?"

  Eliakim shook his head. "Occasionally I'll catch fish, but I farm. Always did. Took over from my dad. Some years are tough, but God kept us."

  Raguel said, "And your sons will take over the farm after you?"

  Darkness crossed the old man's face. "My sons died fighting to preserve the land." He hauled himself up from his chair. "I'm not showing you good hospitality, talking about the past. Would you like food or drink, or are you unable to eat our sort of food?"

  "I have no need."

  Eliakim stopped, and Raguel saw that momentary emptiness on the man's face: rejection. Uselessness.

  "Although, come to think of it," Raguel said, "if you have some wine, let's share that."

  Eliakim brought two cups and a wineskin. "I thought much wine is a mocker."

  "It is, but it depends on how you define much." Raguel grinned. "I've got an angelic body, so I don't have to get drunk. But I could tell you some stories about the people I've outlasted."

  Eliakim arched his eyebrows. "Are you old enough to tell those stories?"

  "Pardon me," Raguel said, "but I'm far older than even your esteemed years."

  An awkward silence. Eliakim asked, "How old?"

  "God created time after He created us angels; I suppose I'm ancient."

  "You don't look it." Eliakim filled both cups. "How many angels are there?"

  "Each star in the sky has its guardian angel, and each person on the earth has a guardian, and there's still plenty left over."

  Eliakim didn't seem impressed. "Do you die?"

  Raguel tasted the wine. Not bad, although a bit sharp. "None have so far, not even those thrown into Hell, which is why that's a horrible place to be. We don't have bodies that age or decay."

  "What's Hell? Is it Sheol?"

  Raguel thought a moment. "Sheol is kind of like a store-room. Human dead aren't judged and sorted yet, so Sheol is where they stay until that happens. If you die with your soul properly aligned, I'm told Sheol is a natural state of happiness, like waking up slowly in the morning, and the souls stay that way until the Messiah opens Heaven."

  Eliakim drummed his fingers on the table. "And will I go into Heaven?"

  Raguel took a drink before answering. "I'm not capable of weighing a soul. But you do know your Ashera is a problem. Worshiping an idol? That's offensive to God." His eyes glimmered. "Astarte and Anat aren't hanging around too, are they?"

  Eliakim tensed. "But Ashera makes it rain. My mother said she's God's consort."

  "God has no consort," Raguel said. "Trust the Torah: your God is One. There is no other in Heaven."

  Eliakim still looked angry. Raguel reached for God. I'm not up to this. I'd rather be fighting fifty demons.

  "Well, then tell me about Heaven."

  Raguel thought. "Picture it as though it's an onion. On one layer are the nine choirs. On others there are gardens and fields, God's library for us, a concert hall, and so forth. On higher layers there are private places, individual spots where some of us have homes. Your guardian has a small home with some pictures of you and a garden where he grows herbs."

  Eliakim sat up. "He farms? What about you?"

  "I haven't claimed any single area yet, other than my spot directly before God in the Ring of the Seven. He assigned that to me." Raguel shrugged. "At any rate, God used Heaven's outer rim for Eden. The world isn't joined to Heaven anymore, except at certain spots like Jerusalem, but angels
have Heaven inside themselves—the Vision of God and the sense of God's love. Nothing is ever the same after experiencing that. If it vanished, you'd die."

  Eliakim looked bored rather than enticed. Raguel sighed. Doesn't he want to be with you?

  Eliakim's fingers drummed the table. "How do you raise enough to eat?"

  "We don't eat. We're not farmers, just tenants who live off the generosity of the Landlord."

  "So everyone in Heaven is going to stay there forever?"

  "Yes..." Raguel hesitated. He would never lie, but it popped into his mind that in Mesopotamia the people had a legend about Gabriel—they called him Jibril—claiming he once fell into disgrace for not obeying a command exactly as given, and that God closed him away from Heaven for a time. But he decided not to mention it—Eliakim had enough to think about it, and anyhow, when Gabriel had asked if (in theory) one could lose God's love, God had said no.

  Raguel diverted the conversation by asking about Eliakim's farm, and Eliakim told him about the land, the crops, the bad years. The disasters. There had been several of those, but the family had recovered and farmed on. Raguel said, "And that was the blessing of God that you did," and Eliakim said, "Well, we made do."

  Eliakim said, "If you did choose a home, where would you locate it?"

  "In God's heart."

  "No, you don't get it," said Eliakim. "I mean, what sort of area? What trees would you plant? What crops would you grow?"

  Raguel shrugged. "I don't eat."

  "You drink."

  "It's your wine." Raguel chuckled.

  "Okay, so you're not farmers." Eliakim shook his head. "What work do you do then?"

  "Other than keeping the company of old men?"

  "Other than making wisecracks."

  Raguel's eyebrows shot up. "Well—whatever God asks me. I've guarded the elements."

  Eliakim said, "You keep the wind in a bag and the rain in a bottle? Like an Ashera?"

  Raguel took more of his wine. Why the change in tone? Why the anger at him? Eliakim said, "You could come back and rain on my crops for me."

  Raguel had uncovered the bottom of the cup. "But you'll be dead by morning." His voice softened.